


Whispers Among Trees

by Tiofrean



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Awkward Tension, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fellowship of the Ring, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Lothlórien, M/M, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28222938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: A twig snaps under his foot - deliberately, in warning - and Boromir’s eyes snap to him, his posture unchanged. He calculates the situation, briefly, opening his mouth silently, before he looks to the ground, his face half-basking in the darkness falling from the tree behind him. He stays like this, unmoving and unreachable, until Aragorn is close enough to sit next to him, cold ground welcoming him with fresh mist wetting his trousers.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Boromir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41





	Whispers Among Trees

**Author's Note:**

> I had that scene in my head, and I finally found the words to describe it. I hope you enjoy it! <3 MermaidSheenaz looked it up and said I can post, so if there are any more mistakes, pin them on me.

The tall Mallorns are whispering softly - a quiet susurrus carrying on with the wind among their high branches. There are a few happy voices on the nearby talan, cheerfully recounting some of the tales of old. Aragorn pays them no mind as he walks by, walks  _ under  _ them, crossing Cerith Amroth and directing his steps to the little garden at the foot of a tiny hill. The place is well-cared for and peaceful, at odds with one lonely warrior sitting in the shadow of a gnarly, white root. 

_ Boromir.  _

With a sigh, Aragorn comes closer, well aware that his friend has come all the way here in an obvious attempt at privacy. With every step, it feels more like trespassing and less like the intended comfort he wishes to bring.  A twig snaps under his foot - deliberately, in warning \- and Boromir’s eyes snap to him, his posture unchanged. He calculates the situation, briefly, opening his mouth silently, before he looks to the ground, his face half-basking in the darkness falling from the tree behind him. He stays like this, unmoving and unreachable, until Aragorn is close enough to sit next to him, cold ground welcoming him with fresh mist wetting his trousers. 

“You are missing the feast,” Aragorn says, not unlike a ranger would, for that is what he is. Not a king, not yet, not for a long time to come. And, being a ranger among the Elves, he feels much better than he would as any noble figure displaying his post… not that his Elvish friends would treat him any differently.    
“And so are you… though I have some goods with me, right here,” Boromir states, leaning further away from him, reaching over to a small bush just to the side. He retrieves a waterskin, which he uncorks and takes a sip, before he hands it over to Aragorn. A curious sniff reveals the sweet scent of Dorwinion wine, and the ranger drinks gladly, giving it back after a long moment. 

They fall into  silence, heavy and too tense to be broken carelessly . Time slips past them, until the only light around is the soft glow coming from the high talans, a few lanterns along the path doing nothing to disperse the shadows. 

Boromir’s face changes slowly, eyes narrowing as his senses sharpen. Aragorn knows well his own body is doing the same, the dusk calling their inner warriors to attention. He gazes at his companion, stricken yet again by his handsome features. Aye! Boromir is a very comely man - a strong jaw, a long and a straight nose, and  a set of broad shoulders that speak of power as much as they whisper of safety. Aragorn, well aware of Boromir’s disinterest in all matters not concerning Gondor, tries not to be too obvious with his appreciation for the man’s beauty. 

He fails time and time again, has been failing from the beginning of their journey, and will likely continue to fail till its end, whatever end that may be. He cannot stop himself, however - tries to be subtle instead. He is not sure how his longing gaze, straying too often to Boromir, can be ignored for much longer, but he is not able to break the newfound habit. In the morning, the first thing his eyes seek upon waking up is the steadfast captain. At the beginning, it was Frodo and the Hobbits he tried to find in the wee hours, making sure they were safe. He realized quickly that Boromir had taken it as his personal mission to keep stock of all of their little friends, so finding Boromir became easier than trying to account for all Hobbits one by one - if the captain is there, their charge is safe and sound somewhere nearby. 

Seeing Boromir in the morning is - by itself - a much more pleasant sight than all the Hobbits combined or alone, anyway. Their youthful disposition may be a good factor in cheering up their whole little band, but sometimes this cheerfulness is too much to stomach after a cold night on a hard ground.  Boromir’s serious pensiveness is something far closer to Aragorn’s heart, something easing his nerves and reminding him about the warriors of old - not the mindless butchers but the thinkers, the strategists. Boromir often gazes off into the distance, analyzing something in his mind quietly, before he realizes that Aragorn is staring at him. He gives him a tiny smile then, just the barest curling of his lips, and stands up quickly, announcing that he is off for a stroll, leaving their future king staring after him hungrily. 

One cold night, not much different in quietness from this one, they were all seated at the foot of Caradhras. Even with the relatively small distance from the villages crawling with orcs, they were safely tucked behind a few boulders, enjoying the tiniest of campfires the wet wood allowed. It was not enough to warm all of them up, and so, the Hobbits had taken the best places, their too soft bodies needing the heat to survive. Aragorn sat near the entrance to their small camp, with Gimli and Legolas posted further out, keeping watch. Boromir came up to him, inquiring about his wellbeing - or was it his mood? After a few rather forlorn words that were a mere growl coming from Aragorn, the captain chuckled and seated himself behind him, shuffling close and throwing his wide cloak around the both of them. The warmth, the solidity of the body behind him, washed over the ranger with enough strength to make him relax and close his eyes. It has been the only night Aragorn slept so peacefully on their travel. 

Such a small gesture, but what a profound effect did it have on the weathered ranger! Since then, Boromir has not been the first sight he looks for in the morning, but also the last sight he longs for in the evening. Those familiar, strong features became so vital to Aragorn, that he cannot settle down until he catches a glimpse of them. Even here, in the peacefulness of Lothlórien, he will not go to sleep without seeking out his friend, knowing well that a grumpy conversation is all he is likely to get. 

Boromir is different here, Aragorn realizes, looking at the man. He is more tense, more aware; his eyes sharp and his muscles twitching, ready to grab the weapon he has left in their talan. Aragorn watches him and mourns the easiness with which they have talked on their way here, their simple camaraderie that has been broken by Gandalf’s fall, made even more difficult by Galadriel’s intrusive thoughts. Aragorn has been subjected to them also, but he is used to them by now. It is something he has to endure on every visit - courtesy of his engagement with Arwen, whose fate is very important to her grandmother. Galadriel is not hard on him, though, not anymore. He has proved his quality to her many times already, and will probably continue to do so. But Boromir, the headstrong captain who bows to no one, is bound to find a lot of difficulties in his reluctant friendship with Galadriel. 

  
  


_ “He is not for you, Estel.”  _ _   
_ _ “I know. I have promised myself to Arwen.”  _ _   
_ _ “Arwen does not mind.”  _ _   
_ _ “I know.”  _

_ A smile.  _

_ “I would not blame you, Estel. But the reasons are different.”  _   
  


And here they are, Boromir sulking in the shadows, grumpily staring into the bushes a few feet from them, and Aragorn stuck watching him, delighted in the way the darkness around them makes this setting much more private than it probably is. Oh, Elves wouldn’t mind, not at all. They are far more liberated than any of the nations living in Middle Earth. But by the standards of Men, a tryst in a garden is much more exposed than any convenances allow for. And certainly not something an upstanding citizen of Gondor would agree to.

“Why have you come here?” Boromir’s voice is gentle, but it seems tired, like if he has just come from a great journey, not spent the past two weeks enjoying Lothlórien’s hospitality.    
“Is it strange to seek company of one’s friend on an evening as fine as this?” Aragorn asks back, unsticking his gaze from the captain, forcing his eyes to look forward.    
“I know what you seek, Aragorn. And I cannot give you that.” 

The shiver that crawls up his spine makes his arms tremble. He rolls his shoulders, trying to shrug off the sudden tension filling him with anticipation. Boromir’s tone brooks no argument, his words as sure as ever, and Aragorn has no doubt as to the truthfulness of them.  His foot jitters jerkily over the prospect of Boromir not being interested, while his whole body heats up at the notion of recognition in the captains’ statement. 

“I know of the ways of the Elves, Aragorn. My little brother is too much of a bookworm not to have informed me about everything fascinating he has dug out of his dusty tomes.” Boromir’s voice is the same, tired and gentle, but there is a certain warmth to it now, something so close to fondness that Aragorn’s heart skips a beat or two. “My first and only love shall forever be Gondor and her people. The ways of the Elves are not for me.” 

Aragorn contemplates it, biting his tongue against the images his mind produces, feeding him with thoughts so indecent they would make the wenches at the Splintered Shield blush brightly. Boromir loves his city, and he loves his country - both, the institution and the people. Aragorn does not see the potential conflict of interest there, cannot fathom why it would exclude any form of personal love, but he is not a king yet. Maybe with time, with the wisdom of his forefathers placed upon his brow in the form of shiny mithril, he would see the reasons for such a judgement. 

Now, he can only shiver and steal glances at Boromir’s unmoved form, imagining a thousand nights he’ll never have. 

“What about the ways of the soldiers, captain?” He asks finally, hoping he doesn’t sound as helplessly eager as he feels.    
“Aye, I know about them,” Boromir says, and a chuckle follows. Aragorn looks at him in surprise, the sudden change of the mood warming him up even further. “But this is not what you seek, is it? You want more than that.” 

He is right in his assessment, but beggars can’t be choosers, and the night is turning cold around them. Aragorn sighs, looks down, follows a spider through the grass with his gaze.    
“Would it be an offense to you if I was to bare my thoughts?” 

The hand on his chin is a surprise so startling, Aragorn looks up as prompted, his gaze getting lost in the glittering green of Boromir’s eyes. There is a smile flickering over those handsome features, hidden in the shadows, a-there-and-gone glimpse of humor. The ranger barely has time to drink it in before it is gone, replaced by seriousness and a curious sort of fascination, a mixture so unexpectedly heady it makes his guts twist. 

A heartbeat, two, and Boromir’s mouth is on his, dry lips pushing against his own, a tongue seeking a way in. It is immediately obvious just how different a warrior, this warrior, is from other men - while they could be tentative or curious, especially when meeting with a mysterious ranger from the far north, Boromir is conquesting him as surely as he would if leading an army to a battle against unschooled infantry. With fingers suddenly appearing on Aragorn’s arms, handling him with strategic precision, Aragorn finds himself laid out on the cool grass, Boromir leaning over him, hovering barely an inch away - just close enough to feel the unbearable, enticing heat of him, far enough not to feel anything more tangible than a wispy shape of the presence of Boromir’s war-trained body. 

The ranger sighs into the kiss, his head swimming, as his hands tangle in Boromir’s hair. Extraordinarily soft, staggeringly tickling as it falls through his fingers and slides over his face. Aragorn groans something unintelligible, something not meant to be heard, and Boromir pulls back, his eyes keen on his friend, his lips bathed swiftly by the tongue that has just plundered Aragorn’s mouth for treasure.    
“I cannot be what you seek,” Boromir reminds him, the verbal blow at odds with his hand, moving leisurely down, reaching far below Aragorn’s waist. The ranger hisses, arching off the ground, pushing up, up into that secure grip. A squeeze, two, and he melts down again, like snow on Caradhras in the summer, shivering and panting for more.    
“I know,” he answers, the whisper rasping out of him, and Boromir leans in again, one-handedly opening the laces keeping him from Aragorn’s flesh. 

“I do love you as I love my brother,” Boromir says, softly, between kisses, and Aragorn closes his eyes against the innocence of that confession, so contrary to what the man’s clever fingers are doing between them. “I can love you as my captain,” Boromir goes on, drawing him out and wrapping his palm around every bit he can manage, the warmth of his skin startling against the chill of the night. Aragorn groans, bites his lip and tosses his head to the side, seeking the arm Boromir has braced himself with next to his head. He finds it, moaning brokenly as the hand on him moves slowly, and hides his face in the crook of an elbow. The captain’s words pause, but his fingers do not, and soon, Aragorn needs to wrap his own hands around Boromir’s back, holding on tightly because the world starts to spin too quickly. A whine bubbles up his throat, the likes of which he rarely allows himself to utter, and he bites down on it, too, forces it down into submission, turning it into ragged breaths and trembling limbs. 

The captain senses it somehow, for he pauses, and Aragorn wants to scream, to tear away and finish what Boromir has started, to sneak one hand between them and let his body take over. He tries to move, but his arms cannot stop clinging to Boromir’s broad shoulders and his legs do not seem to be in a cooperative mood either, widening around the man’s hips, inviting him in more surely than any words could. Boromir sees it clearly, sees right through him, the newly unoccupied hand tangling in Aragorn’s hair, turning his head back to face the man. He shuts his eyes tightly and takes a deep breath.   
“I shall love you as my king, too,” Boromir murmurs, waiting for Aragorn to open his eyes, a thumb stroking slowly over one sharp cheekbone. 

“Will you not look at me, my king?” He asks, and had it been anyone else, the words would have been mocking and unpleasant. With Boromir, with the seriousness in his gentle voice, so unexpectedly tender, Aragorn feels nothing but happiness, and so he looks at the man above him, gazing deep into the shadowed eyes. Boromir smiles - the easy, deeply cheerful smile that he has bestowed upon the ranger only a handful of times during their journey, and lowers himself down on top of Aragorn, their bodies fitting together with surprising accuracy. 

It is a brainless move, then, to wrap his legs around his captain, to fit the heels of his boots along the swell of Boromir’s ass. A small dig, urging him on, and the hand disappears from Aragorn’s head to untangle the laces of that comely set of Gondorian trousers. The nakedness revealed thereafter is Aragorn’s swift undoing, filling him with fire far greater than the forges at the belly of the Lonely Mountain can handle. He whimpers, without a care about the Elves that probably hear every single thing they say and do, and tosses his head back to moan his pleasure into the night. Boromir chuckles breathlessly, leaning in for a hard kiss and a soft caress, before he trembles above him, falling apart himself. 

After, when their bodies are still trying to grasp exactly what has just happened, the captain is in no hurry to move away. He slides off lazily, tying his laces back up for the sake of propriety only, not bothering to right his clothing. Aragorn manages to sit up at least, cleaning himself with a few leaves and a handful of grass, silently apologizing to a doe he can hear moving a few feet away from them for ruining her dinner. This thought brings a smile to his face, giddy with that strange elation which comes with getting something you have dreamed of, then glances at Boromir. 

The captain is stretched on the ground languidly, eyes half-open and lips parted. Aragorn wishes to kiss them and, after a brief consideration, leans in and does just that - a soft, small kiss, nothing more. Boromir eyes him, then looks to the side, sitting up at last.    
“I cannot be what you seek. You know that as surely as I do.”    
“I know,” Aragorn answers, because he does.    
“Why then- Oh. She spoke to you.” And this, the ranger confirms with a nod, too solemn for the happiness he has just felt. He does not think Galadriel’s input matters, does not think it can change his heart, but he takes it into consideration just the same, knowing she is far wiser than he would ever be. 

Boromir swallows hard, closing his eyes. Aragorn can see his body tensing up, the line of his shoulders squaring out, his neck becoming rigid.    
“She spoke in my mind,” the captain says after a moment. “She spoke of the things I did not want to hear. She spoke of things she has no business of knowing. And yet she spoke true, and her words were barbs as well as they were a blessing.” Boromir’s voice seems haunted, his fingers twitching. “I shall love you as my brother, and as my king. That is all I have to offer. This… this is just…”    
“Those are the ways of the soldiers,” Aragorn supplies softly, reaching over and placing his palm over the shifting fingers. “I cannot ask for more.” A nod answers him, a sigh as delicate as the breeze around them. “You have my love already, the ranger and the king, if our mission proves successful.”    
“I know.” 

  
  


_ “Why do you do this, Estel, do you even know? Do you perceive what lies in your heart when the darkness raises upon Arda?” _ _   
_ _ “My heart goes where it will, you know we cannot change its course.”  _ _   
_ _ “And yet you try. Lesser men would exercise their power through command.”  _ _   
_ _ “Do you think I could ever do such a thing, my lady?”  _ _   
_ _ “I would not have agreed to give you Arwen if I did, Estel. Do not be a fool, though. The time you have with him shall end soon.”  _ _   
_ _ “So you have said.”  _ _   
_ _ “Guard your heart well, future king. There will be love enough to share once the deed is done. You cannot lose yourself, for you are fighting not only for your own crowned head, but for those who your dear Boromir loves as well.”  _

  
  


The night around them falls for good, the air becoming much too chilly for comfort. Reluctantly, they make their way back to the top of the hill, silent until they reach the ladder leading to the guest talan they have been given. As they climb, Aragorn feels that the night can stretch on a bit more, and is near desperate to help with that quest. Fortunately, it is Boromir who grabs two cups from the low table, fills them with sweet Elvish wine and brings them over.    
“Have I told you about the time my brother saw an Elf in his lovely Ithilien?”

At Aragorn’s curious gaze, he starts the tale, seating himself right next to Aragorn. The heat radiating off him is enough to distract Aragorn halfway through his story. Come morning, the ranger is sure their hosts are well informed of Boromir’s prowess and his own willingness to submit to it. He wonders whether the trees will carry the gossip on their leaves to Haldir, and the thought makes him grin, burying his face in Boromir’s neck. 


End file.
